


yesterday's tomorrow night

by bonca



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), dan and phil
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonca/pseuds/bonca
Summary: Daniel Howell, a trained bodyguard who was taught that he is not to have feelings, is thrown into the deep-end when he is asked to protect the Prime Minister, Phil Lester.As though the job itself isn’t hard enough, Phil is absolutelygorgeousto look at, which just makes it near impossible.[AU IDEA INSPIRED BY "THE BODYGUARD"]





	1. chapter i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They sit in _Philip Lester_ , the Prime Minister’s office. Like the rest of the house, it’s yellow, it’s _very_ yellow, but somehow it’s a warmer and more welcoming shade and Dan doesn’t at all mind it."

“Are you ready, Mr. Howell?” The driver says, eyes flickering between the rain-soaked road and the rear view mirror. Dan can feel the driver’s eyes sink into him, but he doesn’t dare meet them; he instead focuses on the pattering of raindrops on the car window.

The truth is, Dan’s not sure if he’s ready. His years of training have all led up to this very moment, and yet his heart almost comes up his throat when the car goes over a speed bump. He’s not sure he’s ready _at all_.

“I suppose so,” he lies, because it’s easier than telling the man behind the wheel of the black sedan that his toes are crinkling in his newly polished shoes and his throat feels as though it’s been rubbed with a grater. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

The car comes to a stop at gold-tinted black gates, an overwhelming cluster of guards pooling over the locks before they open with a metallic ‘click’. That’s when the door comes into sight.

Dan’s hands clutch onto each other and his fingers twitch as he feels the car come to a stop and the driver turns the engine off. He probably should've used more mouthwash when he brushed his teeth this morning because his mouth tastes metallic, and his curls probably could've been tamed better. Dan’s tie and white button-up feel too tight and he’s going to choke.

They both exit the car. Dan follows the driver, distracting himself with buttoning-up the wrists on his suit for the sixth time that hour. He has to make sure he looks good, _presentable_ , because the man he is about to shake hands with will be the same man he’ll share the rest of his career with.

That is, if nothing goes wrong.

Dan’s almost falling over himself, his feet clambering up the steps, and he scolds himself for being so improper and so unprofessional. He didn’t do military training to be losing his footing, and he _certainly_ did not stay up almost every night, pressed flat up against a wall to ensure he had good enough posture only to be slouching on the welcome mat of 10 Downing Street.

The driver knocks on the door, pale, clenched fist pounding just below the painted number ten.

A lady answers. She doesn’t look like a very cheery person, but Dan can’t imagine he’ll ever remember the meaning of the word after this job. Nobody who works for the Prime Minister can be _cheery_ , especially someone like Dan. A single curl dangles in front of her face, bouncing as she leans her head to the side in a seemingly condescending manner. The rest of her locks are pinned up neatly with a black ribbon, not a single hair out of its place. A mole sits upon the dent of her top lip. She makes Dan feel... well, he can't pinpoint it exactly, but he knows it's not good.

She finally speaks up, in a posh London accent, “I assume this is the new CPO?”

“Yes, Ma’am. His name is Mr. Daniel Howell,” the driver says, and Dan doesn't quite mind the name. It makes him sound a bit more important than the boy who worked in a factory for the majority of his life to pay the bills and feed himself, before leaving everything behind to join the forces and train to become a _bodyguard_. No, Dan doesn’t mind the name at all.

With that, the driver leaves and Dan is left standing on the doorstep, before he’s welcomed coldly past the threshold of 10 Downing St.

He follows the lady through the corridors of the Prime Minister’s house. They’re mostly painted a mustard yellow, but Dan isn’t too fussed on the colour. Old telephones and tea sets sit forgotten on mantelpieces and jade and olive dressers. The teacups planted in their saucers remind Dan of when his little sister would play with her plastic ones which Dan had so kindly painted for her with sunflowers and her other favourite flora.

They continue to adventure through the halls. Almost every yellow wall is complete with three framed paintings of what appear to be the same royals each time and Dan only wonders if anyone ever thought to redecorate.

Dan’s heart bounds up and down his throat for the second time as the lady shows him to a door. It’s a big, white, polished door with a golden knob that’s rusting in one spot. The maid with the mole nods to Dan, motioning for him to open it. With a quivering hand, he does.

The door opens to a rather spacious room. A wooden desk sits snugly in the corner, stoically guarding a pair of french doors that stand proudly behind it. On the desk are piles upon piles of neatly stacked documents, the print too small for Dan to read from his current position, but he knows they are probably far too important to be sorted in an any less perfect manner than they are. A lime coloured desk light hovers above the papers. Beside the desk is a window open so wide it causes the thin, silk curtains to sway in time with the draft. Somehow the gusts of wind that slip through make Dan feel a bit at ease, as though he’s not in the doorway of the Prime Minister’s office. Around a dark mahogany table sit six dining chairs fit with yellow cushions, all facing one another as though the seats themselves are having a conference. The walls are cream and panelled, and a patterned carpet runs around the room.

Then, a man — probably in his early-to-mid 30s, Dan estimates — stands from the desk chair. The first thing Dan notices about him is his eyes and how they make him feel a thousand and one ways. Blues and azures crash over each other and, seeing them from two and a half metres away, Dan can only pray for the people who have been lucky enough to see them up close.

He walks over and it’s only then that the man speaks up, “Ah, you must be Mr. Howell, right?”

“Please, call me Dan.”

 

* * *

 

They sit in _Philip Lester_ , the Prime Minister’s office. Like the rest of the house, it’s yellow, it’s _very_ yellow, but somehow it’s a warmer and more welcoming shade and Dan doesn’t at all mind it. Perhaps that’s because Phil Lester is there and he’s much more friendly than Dan could have ever imagined, but it could also be the undoubtedly expensive water talking.

“Whiskey?” Phil says, holding a bottle so clear it could be made of pure diamond. He’s half way through pouring his own glass.

“No, thank you. I'm quite alright with this," Dan replies, gesturing to the glass of water sitting on the table. He watches Phil set down the bottle onto a silver platter on the coffee table — but it’s probably called something more posh than a coffee table.

Phil raises the glass of whiskey to his mouth and drinks from it, before leaning back onto the plush red and gold couch. His right leg lays atop the other and his arms stretch out behind him.

“So, tell me, Dan, what inspired you to become a bodyguard?” Phil takes another swig.

The question circles in Dan’s mind. He’s not sure. He’s not sure why he’s about to devote his life to another human being who, personally, doesn’t mean anything to him. Perhaps he likes the thrill, or the authority of it. Yes, he’ll say exactly that.

“You’ve got someone else’s whole life and future sitting right in your hands, I suppose. The pride that comes with that responsibility is… it’s _terrifying_ but so, so rewarding. I also quite like the danger that comes with it, if I’m being honest,” Dan says proudly. He’s not sure he wants to look at Phil for a reaction just yet. Perhaps he’ll think he’s insane and perhaps this will be both his first and last day at 10 Downing Street. “The thrill of knowing that you’ll die serving someone, serving _a purpose_ , and that every day could be your very last. It’s exhilarating, really.”

“Interesting,” is all Phil says. He takes another sip of his whiskey after swirling it in slow circles under his palm. “Though you’ll always die serving somebody, bodyguard or not. Everybody dies after serving themselves, Dan.”

The words don’t sit right with him. They sink deep into the air, leaving the only sound to be the ice cubes clinking together in Phil’s drink as he continues to roll it around in circular motions, as if stirring it will somehow enhance the taste — and maybe it will, it’s not like Dan would know.

Dan leans forward and takes his glass of water from the platter. He doesn’t fully understand why two glasses and a bottle of whiskey must be carried on a silver platter, he thought platters were just for extravagant turkeys or numerous glasses of bubbling champagne. He sips the water from the glass anyways. It’s ice cold as it rushes down his throat.

“Do you have a family, Dan? A wife? Children? I suppose you don’t. Nobody with a family trains mercilessly to become a CPO and puts their life at risk every day, I suppose, but I thought it would be at least worth asking.” A clock in the far corner of the office chimes. Phil doesn’t flinch. “Perhaps you could be the first of a kind, though.”

Dan sets his drink down. “I don’t.”

He looks to the adjacent window. On the windowsill sit many small potted plants, all unique in their colour and type. A few grow flowers that wave at Dan and others grow from child-like painted pots. If Dan didn’t know better, he’d say he isn’t sitting in the PM’s office but rather a teenage artist’s whose favourite thing to draw is freckles.

Dan and Phil bask in the silence for a while longer; Phil drinks from his whiskey every so often and Dan studies the room more. Above the desk is a framed painting of a rocky beach, complete with a generic red and white lighthouse and cliffs that tumble into the sea. It’s a magnificent painting. Dan makes out the signature on the bottom left to look like _Phil_ with an added smiley face beside it, and he wonders if comparing Phil to a teenage artist is not so far off.

 

* * *

 

Phil walks up the carpeted stairs, arm outstretched, fingers running along the painted banister. He’s showing Dan around the house, and the word that comes to Dan’s mind is _tardis_ ; what, on the outside, looks to be a quaint living space is in fact a mansion of grand staircases, elegant and undoubtedly expensive decor and a seemingly endless supply of regal portraits lining the walls.

“As you may or may not know, there are other security guards here. They work shifts and guard the premises - mostly at night,” Phil says almost proudly as he reaches the top step. It feels as though they’ve been climbing forever. If he’s being honest, Dan didn’t know that they had _other_ people littered around the place to protect Phil. A sinking feeling settles in his chest; he doesn’t know why. Before Dan joins him on the second floor, Phil turns around, saying, “You, however, are my only bodyguard. I insisted that I didn’t need one, that the guards were enough, but now that you’re here I don’t think I can still say the same.”

Dan ignores that last thing. It's the whiskey, fine and strong, that is causing Phil to speak so brazenly, he figures.

They continue down the hall which narrows as they progress. The doors are a little fancier than the ones downstairs, and Dan can only assume it’s because they are the bedrooms.

“That being said, we have a spare bedroom or two that you’re to stay in. If you’d like to, that is.” Dan wonders if Phil thinks he has some place better to be. He doesn’t, and even if he did, how _could_ Dan say no to such an offering? He’s been given such a beautiful place to stay in, and he has a passing thought that there isn’t a universe out there in which he’d decline.

Phil opens the door to the bedroom on the very end of the corridor, and Dan half expects it to creak loudly. Of course, it doesn’t, but Dan has grown so accustomed to hearing the squeak of broken hinges on his own door because his father never seemed to have the time to fix it. And that certainly didn’t have as magnificent a door knob as the one before him.

To someone like the Prime Minister, a room like Dan’s new one — the one he’ll be sleeping in — is probably expected. To Dan, however, it’s far nicer than his temporary training quarters and cheaply rented flat in which he had lived over the past three months.

A bed is situated in the middle of the room, its bed sheets nothing less than pristine white. There’s a bookshelf, a lamp and a bedside table that all somehow manage to string together well. Dan quite likes the simplicity of it.

“I have an important meeting in thirty minutes.” Dan’s head clicks back to Phil as he speaks, looking down at his watch. “I can’t imagine you’ll have to spruce up, but I need to go and sort a few things. I’ll be in my room upstairs, the stairwell is just around the corner.”

Dan nods.

 

* * *

 

Dan can’t say he’s happy to be sitting back in the same black car he came in. It’s still dripping in his anxieties from earlier and merely thinking about it causes his chest to tighten and the same choking sensation to return.

They’re driving to Phil’s meeting — _the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting_ , as he’d so confidently called it — which is held every two years by the Prime Minister. It’s Phil’s first one.

The thought bustles through his brain for a few moments, as the car drives through the streets of London which are heavily barricaded and closely guarded. If Dan was in his position, he’d be a nervous wreck right now. Presentations and speeches were his sore subjects in school - he hated them with everything 15-year-old Dan had in him. He saw them only as a waste of time. _How smart a person is shouldn't be based on how many times they stutter while talking about their ‘passions’, even if it’s some made up bullshit_ , he’d always tell both his friends and himself. The latter when he failed.

Phil doesn’t at all seem bothered by the fact that he’s about to deliver a presentation and hold a meeting with people so important Dan feels as though he’d be committing a crime by simply looking in their direction. Sure, his leg is twitching every now and then and Dan’s pretty sure he sees him biting his nails out of the corner of his eye, but for the most part he seems unphased.

As they drive, the crowds beginning to gather at the fences worsen. Some hold posters in protest and others start to form a chant that Dan can’t quite make out, and that’s when he realises they’re chanting at _Phil_. Not for him, or with him, but _against_ him.

A man in a SuperDry hoodie somehow squeezes his way through the barricades and past security, and shouts right at the tinted car window.

  
Dan glances over to Phil, and he looks a little uneasy. He looks stiff sitting on the car seat, and his hand has retreated from resting against the windowsill to now pressing firmly into his lap. Dan somehow feels responsible, like he should've been there to stop the man.

The car pulls up.

“Are you ready?” Phil says, looking over at Dan for the first time since they entered the car. Dan doesn't know what he’s supposed to be ready for, and he’s not sure he wants to find out. He nods nevertheless.

Dan opens his car door and shortly after opens Phil’s. As soon as Phil steps out of the car, the crowd that’s collected around the venue boos and riots. A few throw oranges that explode as they make contact with the pavement, and Dan wonders why it has to be oranges of all things. Their signs are peppered with red crosses and bold, black lines of words Dan can’t make out because the world is moving too quickly, and before he knows it he and Phil are making for the doors as quickly as the Prime Minister and his bodyguard can without seeming crazed.

Safely inside the building and walking hurriedly to Phil’s meeting, Dan says, “I didn’t realize things were that bad.”

“Welcome to my world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh if you're reading this i really really hope you enjoyed it!! please let me know what you think of it by commenting, or come say hi on tumblr (@philsbear)!!


	2. chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Phil is having breakfast in his _fairly_ spacious dining room, though it’s bigger than the whole of Dan’s childhood home. He’s the only one sat at the dining table which sits 20 people, and he looks quite alone surrounded by all the breakfast he has been served."

“ _And that’s why, moving forward, it would be only logical to—_ ” Phil’s voice echoes deeply up and down the hallways of the House of Commons and, for the most part, it’s muffled by either cheers or boos. From what Dan can hear, though, it’s a good speech; he thinks he’s going to watch it in bed on TV later in his new room.

He, of course, isn’t allowed in. Dan’s not some _important politician_ or anyone who really deserves to be in there, so he stands silently outside the door among other guards like him. He feels like he’s sitting in his old school’s _Lost Property_ box, just waiting to be picked up or thrown away, or in the deepest drawer of his deepest cupboard collecting dust.

Dan sucks his jaw in and he stands tall against the wood panelled wall of the House. He remembers seeing it on TV sometimes when he was little, and he always wondered what it looked like behind the scenes. He’s here now, but he’s unflinching, unblinking and staring only forwards.

It’s only a little while after when Phil comes storming out of the room with a ‘ _let’s go, Dan_ ’.

 

* * *

 

 _10:32_ , Dan’s phone reads as he loosens his tie and throws it on the bed, in the comfort of his own room. It has a nice smell to it and it seems unused. He undoes the top button of his shirt and sits down on the edge of his new bed, looking around at the lamp-lit bedroom and studying the ornaments on the few side cabinets.

The door opens and Dan is at his socked feet before he can even really process it. It’s Phil.

“What is it, Mr. Lester?” Dan’s words pour from his mouth in a rushed way. His tie still sits abandoned amongst the bed sheets and he feels like it should still be firm against his neck.

It’s then, under the dull and hazy light of the old bedside lamp that Dan really realises how… _gorgeous_ Phil really looks. Dan’s day has been far too fast-paced for him to really notice how confidently Phil carries himself — even in the slight crack of the door. His lips are full and too nice to be woven so gently into his face, and Dan feels like dousing his cracked ones in only the thickest balm he can find. The eyes that so confidently greeted him earlier feel different now; they’re soft, _warm_ even, and Dan feels invited by them. He knows he shouldn't.

Dan straightens his back.

“I wanted to say goodnight.” Phil’s lips are pressed into a polite smile, but only slightly. “And it’s Phil, by the way.”

Dan’s shoulders relax before he says, “Oh, well in that case, goodnight.” The door closes.

Undressed and settling into bed, Dan holds his phone out in front of his face and pulls up Phil’s speech from earlier. Soon enough, the news channel’s videos come up and he watches them with his volume down. Dan doesn’t understand a majority of the points he’s making — he’s never really understood, let alone been _interested_ in politics — but people seem to agree with him for the most part.

This Phil is a completely different man to the one who was sat opposite him this afternoon, though. The Phil who sipped whiskey with his shoulders pushed back was considerate and amiable, and almost kind as he told Dan goodnight, but the Phil grainy on his small phone screen is _harsh_ as he spits his opinions at people and Dan knows he doesn’t want to cross paths with him.

After he finishes the video, Dan sets his alarm for seven.

He’s never fallen asleep faster.

 

* * *

 

Phil is having breakfast in his _fairly_ spacious dining room, though it’s bigger than the whole of Dan’s childhood home. He’s the only one sat at the dining table which sits 20 people, and he looks quite alone surrounded by all the breakfast he has been served. He’s currently picking at his avocado bread with sliced bananas on top, and he’s already had the English breakfast that came before it. A plate of croissants with every type of berry littered around them sits untouched, and he has three different bowls of cereal cluttering the table. Stacks of sugared, half-eaten pancakes are left beside some syrup and a pot of butter. Dan’s never had butter in anything but a plastic tub. Jugs of both apple and orange juice are planted amongst the breakfast, and along with them a cup of lukewarm coffee. It’s _far_ too much breakfast for one person, Dan thinks as he stands at the furthest end of the dining room.

He doesn’t exactly know why he’s standing here, practically watching Phil (struggle to) eat everything from a plate of every type of cheese to waffles topped with whipped cream. Dan’s sure Phil doesn’t need _protecting_ while he’s peeling a slice of banana from his toast, and he doesn't even know if he’ll get any breakfast himself.

Looking up from his meal, Phil says, “I’ll never get through all of this. You should join me.”

“I really don’t think it’s my place to, Mr. Les—”

“Orders.” He motions to a seat.

Dan, of course, complies, because that’s what he’s supposed to do and the Prime Minister just _ordered for him to sit beside him and share his grand breakfast_. But as Dan is walking over to the dining table, he can’t help but feel like if he was supposed to, or even _allowed_ to eat with Phil then he would be.

Before he sits, he glances over to the french doors where he was stood just a moment ago. Thankfully, nobody is there, so Dan takes his seat beside Phil.

“Orange or apple?” Phil says, reaching for the only glass on the table.

“I’m quite fine without.” Dan replies, because that’s _Phil’s_ glass for _Phil’s_ drink and he’ll only feel bad for putting him out.

Phil looks at Dan, and Dan’s not sure but his face looks painted with concern. “Are you sure? If it’s because there’s only one glass here, I’m certainly not having any. I need this coffee, trust me.”

Dan smiles, his hands clammy under the table. “In that case, apple.”

He watches Phil pour it before he sets it in front of him. Before he knows it, he has pancakes and cheese pushed in front of him by Phil because he’s ‘too full’.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dan begins, looking to meet Phil’s eyes after looking at the drapes and paintings on the dining hall walls. “Why did you invite me to sit with you?”

Phil’s face flattens as he replies, “Did you not want to?”

“Oh, of course not. I mean — I was quite fine watching you eat, but I — I appreciate this,” his voice tumbles back as he holds a crumbling savoury in his hand.

“I just think it’s cruel to have you stand there.”

Dan picks at some of the food he’s been given.

“Why don’t they like you, the crowds?” Dan says after swallowing the croissant that Phil helped him smother in strawberry jam. It’s even nicer tasting that he expected it to be, and he makes an internal note to eat more jam and croissants.

“They don’t like the decisions I make, I suppose. Of course I have no _choice_ but to make decisions, and sometimes I don’t even agree with the decisions I have to make, but I don’t worry too much about the booing.” Phil has his plates pushed away from him, and has his elbow up on the table. As far as Dan knows from the movies he’s watched, posh people are usually taught table manners and that you should never put your elbows on the table, but he can’t complain when Phil looks at him with his chin snug in his palm. “I know that there are people out there agreeing with me and _cheering_ me, why should I just listen to the booing and the people who throw oranges? Their opinions can’t matter that much if the best they can do is throw fruit.”

Dan nods in agreement because his mouth is full of bread and butter. He swallows and washes his mouth down with his juice. “That’s a fair point.”

They sit there for a while, Dan crunching on a waffle every now and then and Phil drinking his coffee. It’s nice, Dan thinks. Phil didn’t have to invite him to have a taste of his delicious breakfast and most people wouldn't have, as, at the end of the day, Dan is there to do a job and nothing else. Phil did, though, and it’s the nicest breakfast Dan thinks he’s ever had.

It’s Phil who breaks the comfy silence. “Did you enjoy my speech last night? I heard you listening to it and—”

Dan almost chokes on a strawberry as it slides down his throat. He curses himself. _Phil heard him?_ Dan swears he had his volume pretty low. God, he must think he’s such a—a _weirdo_ , or something along the lines. “Uh, yeah. It was good. Really good, actually. Yeah.”

“I didn't see you as someone who is into politics, but maybe I’m wrong.”

“No,” Dan says. “Not particularly, but I can tell it was a great speech.” He finishes his glass of apple juice.

Phil gets up from the dining table when the doorbell echoes throughout the house. Dan wasn’t aware there _was_ a doorbell up until now, but he meets Phil on his feet anyways. They both stay silent as they walk to the main hall of the house.

“Archie?” Phil says in a slightly dull tone in the direction of the front door. “I didn’t know you were calling.”

“ _Calling_ , Phil? I thought you said I was welcome any time.” The voice spills back in a far more lively way — it’s almost a laugh. Dan is stood behind Phil and he curiously leans to peer over his shoulder to find the owner of the voice.

A tall man stands in the reception of the house, and he probably towers over anyone taller than six foot. He’s far more tanned than Dan and Phil put together — but Dan’s not sure that’s a good way to put it as _anyone_ is more tanned than that — and stubble sits like clutter on the lower part of his face. His dark hair travels down the back of his neck and it curls on the ends; they’re gelled and more tamed than Dan’s messy ones. He just seems better than Dan in every way possible, and Dan’s not sure he likes it.

“Phil,” Archie says, looking at Dan. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest?”

A feeling rattles in Dan’s chest at the thought of being purely a _guest_ in Phil’s life, before Phil says, “He’s not a guest, Chi. His name is Daniel and he’s my bodyguard.” He steps to the side, and Dan feels exposed.

“Hello, Dan. I’m Archie.” His hand sits firmly in Dan’s hand as he shakes it, and he’s now glued to Phil’s side with his arm snaked around him. “I’m Phil’s — good friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u want to, come say hi on tumblr @philsbear or leave a comment with ur thoughts c:


	3. chapter iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They’re at another one of Phil’s meetings. The car is pulling up outside the same building they’d been in a few weeks ago, and since then the crowds have only gotten worse. Dan slips out from the car seat and Phil follows suit.
> 
> It happens too quickly for anyone to react."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi !! just thought i'd give a **warning** for this chapter for an **anxiety/panic attack**. if you're not comfy with the subject, i don't think the first half of this chapter is suitable to read.
> 
> stay safe!

It’s been a _month_ since Dan walked through the door of Ten Downing Street and shook hands with Phil Lester for the first time, and if he’s being quite honest, not much has changed.

It’s been thirty days of running back and forth through black cars to meetings and thirty days of shared breakfasts. It’s also been thirty days of Dan helplessly watching Archie’s hand edge closer to Phil’s thigh when they sit at the dinner table and their glances at each other have only gotten longer. Dan’s not sure they're _good friends_ anymore, or if they ever were to begin with.

They’re at another one of Phil’s meetings. The car is pulling up outside the same building they’d been in a few weeks ago, and since then the crowds have only gotten worse. Dan still doesn’t fully understand why, no matter how much explaining Phil does over the warm cups of tea they have in his office. Dan slips out from the car seat and Phil follows suit.

It happens too quickly for anyone to react.

A sound of gunshots pierces the air as soon as Phil comes out from behind the tinted black windows, and is in sight of the crowd.

There’s an uproar of screams and the entirety of the crowd fall to their knees, as does Dan with his arms jumping to Phil’s back. Dan doesn’t know if the shots were close by — they probably were — but he knows that Phil can’t stay standing in the firing line any longer and the trek to the old building shielded by pillars isn’t one that can be made safely.

Dan has no choice but to shove the Prime Minister back into the backseats of the sedan and hope that the shooter doesn’t have a view of the windows.

“Phil, stay down. _Phil_.” Dan is shouting and his hands are still flush against Phil’s back, pushing him further down into the seat and out of sight. He’s shouting at the driver to _drive!_ and when they finally start moving, Dan’s telling him to go faster.

Phil’s head is in between his knees and his hands are clasped behind the back of his head — shaking — and he’s so silent. His knees are bumping up and down beside his ears and he doesn’t need to be bent over any longer.

Dan rests his hand over Phil’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb in circles, and softly says, “Phil, you’re okay. You can sit up now, Phil. You’re here and you’re okay.”

“No, no, no,” Phil’s voice shakes. “No, please get your hand off me, _please_.” He sits up when Dan’s hand quickly retires to his lap and Phil begins to run his hands through his hair, messing it up. He’s breathing in and out heavily and his hands are tight to his collar, undoing the top few buttons on his shirt. Phil’s hands rub up and down the back of his neck, coating his hands in a thick layer of sweat, and he begins to repeat _I’m trapped, I need to get out, I can’t breathe_. His hands travel up and down his arms and scratch at his sleeves. Dan doesn’t know what to do; he helplessly watches Phil’s fingers grasp at the roots of his hair and lightly tug at them, choke out sobs, and say “I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t_.”

Dan’s never experienced anyone have a panic attack before — he doesn’t even know if what Phil is going through _is_ one — but he knows perhaps comforting him isn’t the right thing to do, so he waits out the journey home and faces the window to give Phil his own time.

The car is two thirds of the way there, racing through the city in merely a blur.

“I—uhm,” Phil whispers, tears still streaming down his translucent cheeks. He tries to wipe them away, but they stay, and run like floods from his eyes.

“What is it?” Matching his tone and whispering back, Dan turns a little in his seat to face Phil.

Phil’s sweaty hands are grasping each other, and in an attempt to dry them, he runs them up and down the front of his ironed trousers. Dan can’t help but notice how uncomfortable he looks in his tailored suit. “Can I squeeze your wrist?”

Dan nods a few times, letting Phil’s eyes meet his own to show him that he’s okay with it. The image of the fear clouding Phil’s eyes is burned into Dan’s memory, though, because he looks so terrified and _hurt_ by anything and everything and Dan doesn’t want to see him like this ever again. He holds his hand out on the middle seat. Hand shaking and fingers fumbling, Phil takes Dan’s wrist and grips it firmly, squeezing on it tightly every now and then when he inhales suddenly or his leg twitches.

 

* * *

 

“Phil?” Dan knocks on his bedroom door. “ _Phil?_ I wanted to check on you.”

No answer.

Panic finds its way into Dan’s system and nestles deep into his stomach. He _knows_ Phil is in there — it’s the only place he’s been since he stumbled into the hallway with his hands gripping his chest and tears streaming down his pale cheeks — so the silence isn’t necessarily what Dan wants to hear. He’s worried.

He knocks again. “Phil? I’m going to open the door, okay?”

The door opens with a soft ‘click’ and it’s the first glimpse of Phil’s room Dan has seen. It’s _grand_ , if Dan can fit it into one word. In the middle of the room, there’s a king-sized bed, covered with a gold-coloured duvet and a dozen different types of pillows and blankets. It looks cosy, but it lacks a Phil.

Dan looks to the small living area Phil has in the corner of his bedroom, complete with an easel and a desk full of small potted plants that Dan would normally find cute if it not for the circumstances, and then to the open door of the en suite. Phil is in neither of the locations.

A cool draft snakes through the empty bedroom and slides through Dan’s clothed legs, and he looks to the open window. The curtains flow in its breeze and the view looks quite pretty. He walks over to it.

“Phil, is that you? Are you on the roof?”

Sure enough, a figure sits with his legs crossed on the slanted roof just outside the window with a bottle of wine in his hand, and it’s unmistakably Phil.

“You found me,” he says, quietly, and Dan wants to say almost sadly.

Dan props himself up onto the windowsill, his hands almost slipping from holding himself up while he slings his legs out the window. It’s a beautiful evening. The sun is beginning to set over the bustling city, and the sky is painted a variety of shades from a bleached yellow, to a dappled, cold pink and then to a mellow purple. It’s quite the sunset, and Dan knows he and Phil have only the best view of it as the sun reflects off of a few silver chimneys.

A dark green bottle is raised into the air by Phil, as he pours the branded wine down his throat and he hands it over to Dan wordlessly. They both know Dan doesn’t tend to drink, both for the job and himself, but he _needs_ it and so he copies Phil’s movements from a moment before.

“I’m sorry about earlier on,” he says after Dan hands the bottle back to him. “It was just—”

“A shock? Yeah. It’s okay.” They both look up at the sky. “That’s what I’m here for, right? To save you.”

Phil whispers, “That’s the thing; neither of us should be here. I shouldn’t, and you _certainly_. The thing is — I don’t even want to be the Prime Minister. What’s the point in protecting someone who doesn’t want to be someone who needs protecting, anyways?” He takes another swig from the bottle, and looks to his side where Dan sits. Dan doesn’t say anything, so he continues. “I feel like I missed out on being normal and — and leading a _normal life_ , Dan.”

“You didn’t miss out on a whole lot.” Dan’s laughing as he says it. He would've given everything to miss out on ‘normal’.

Phil looks curiously back over at Dan. “What does that mean? Tell me.”

Dan doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know how to tell Phil — who has probably only been given everything, from new and polished school shoes when his others had a scratch to a bigger and better TV each time a new one rolled out — that the only word he could put on his childhood is struggle, not normal.

He begins, “Most days, dinner consisted of the cereal spilling from its box in the very back of the cupboard. My school uniform was far too small for me by the time I was finishing school and the soles of my shoes were hanging off; they almost tripped me up every time I walked, because we couldn't afford new. I’ve never done most things you’d probably find boring. As silly as it sounds, I’ve never been to a _pet shop_ , although I’ve always wanted to go to one.”

Phil listens.

They talk a bit more, both telling snippets of their past and the other listening intently. Somehow, the conversation lands on Phil’s paintings.

“Oh!” The slats on the roof seem unstable, as though they’d come down like an avalanche and Dan’s not sure he wants to meet Phil on his feet when he stands. “I _have_ to paint you.”

Phil’s hand reaches for Dan’s and he holds him around his wrist, tugging him up from his feet and back over to the ajar window. They try not to thump their heads on the ceiling as they jump from the windowsill, and onto the carpet of Phil’s room.

When Phil looks down at his fingers which encompass Dan’s wrist, he drops his hand with a “sorry”.

They both sit on one of the couches tucked in the far corner of Phil’s bedroom. Phil has his legs crossed and up on the sofa, and Dan can’t help but admire his childlike behaviour. He begins to talk Dan through all the brushes he uses.

“This one,” he holds a rather thick brush that’s ever-so-slightly stained with pink. “Is for backgrounds, Dan, and this one,” he picks up another brush. This time it’s smaller and the point on it is quite fine. “Is for, like, the minor details.”

Dan looks at Phil and quietly says, “Like the freckles on my cheeks?”

Phil turns to look at him, too. Dan can feel Phil’s eyes wander up and down his face, where they settle on his lips, flickering between them and his eyes. Dan knows he shouldn't be almost deafened by the sound of his own heart thumping in his throat and pulsating through his whole body, but he is and his fingers begin to pick nervously at his trousers.

“ _Exactly_ like your freckles,” Phil replies lowly.

Dan could swear Phil’s face is slowly inching closer to his with every passing second they bask in the heavy silence, and with it his breathing only gets heavier and more rapid.

“Phil?” A voice comes from the bedroom door that Dan must've left open. It sounds upset. Both Dan and Phil whip their heads around to meet it.

It’s Archie. Of course it’s Archie.

Before either of them can say anything (not that Dan would, because it’s usually never his place to speak when Archie is around) Archie begins to flee down the hallway in the direction of the front door, and he drops a plastic bag where he was standing a moment ago.

Phil looks to Dan. “Sorry, I — I should go.”

The room is silent when Phil is to his feet and at the door of his bedroom. He disregards the bag, stepping over it and calling repeatedly for Archie. After all, Dan is only there to die for Phil if the situation arises, and Archie is the one Phil is running after. Dan’s nothing more than that.

A few shouts come from the hallway, _I did this_ and _you did that_. And then, silence.

Dan walks over to the blue plastic bag where it lays abandoned in the doorway. He doesn’t want to be nosy, but the bag is mostly open anyways. Bending down, he grabs the item on the top and holds it in his hands. It’s a heart-shaped box with the words _'Happy Anniversary!'_ printed on it.

They’re good friends, of course.

He looks down the hallway in the direction of his room, because it’s the only place he wants to be right now. In the four-wall confinement of his bedroom, alone, where no person can come in without a knock and permission to.

Instead of an empty corridor, though, he’s greeted with the sight of Archie pressed roughly up against the wall by Phil, their lips attached harshly and bodies moving together, quiet groans emitting from both parties.

Dan feels his heart sink into the floorboards.


End file.
